


Language

by orphan_account



Category: NSYNC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-10
Updated: 2010-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-07 20:44:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>JC and Justin in a song booth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Language

**Author's Note:**

> Songfic. Run away now.

_The divine temptation_

  


_The flavor of sin_

  


_Your kisses are sweet_

  


_And mysterious._

JC still lived life as if he wasn't being watched constantly.

He envied JC's ability (or inability, depending on whom you ask) to disregard the fact that there were always cameras roaming around now. Digital, instamatics, Polaroids, whatever else under the sun, waiting for still glimpses of his life, a judgmental eye floating about waiting to dissect his every move. It was instinctive now though, that ability to react as if everything was being filmed.

Justin lived his life like a documentary, but took great measures hiding the truth so everything was negated in the end anyway. Limbo. It was a cycle that has become an unconscious habit as he strolled along the brightly-lit streets of New York City.

He watched JC as they walked amongst the crowd. Here they could still go about the masses relatively undisturbed, but with JC's nice enough black shirt but weird enough blue, snakeskin patterned pants, people still paid attention. Justin found the reason when the conversation of two women walking a step or two behind them seeped into his awareness above the din around him. The reason wasn't what he was thinking though, and he felt a jump of surprise. They must have been a bit hard of hearing or had the fearlessness that women who grew old in big cities attained through experience, because they spoke in loud and clear voices.

"Oi, these homosexuals. They get more colorful every time I see them."

"Like peacocks, they are. They follow nature's patterns better than any of us. You see those documentaries on Discovery, no? All those males, in gaudy colors, impressing females."

"The almost bald one isn't dressed like that though, it's just the blue pants one."

"That one isn't out to impress girls though."

Justin whipped his head around quickly and saw that the women were elderly, one with thick glasses and the other with a cane she held like a sword. The two women averted their eyes and spoke in lower tones. Justin, for his part, pretended to look at a building behind them as if he were looking for some sort of landmark, then turned his attention back to JC.

Blue eyes met his, gentle concern written all over them. He had stopped walking, and was waiting for Justin who had fallen a step or two behind.

"What's wrong, Just?"

"Eh. Just overheard something."

JC's lips quirked upwards. "Those two old ladies who just crossed the street?"

Justin looked around and saw that the women had indeed crossed the street going uptown. The one with the glasses, who reminded him of his always well-meaning grandmother, happened to meet his eyes again and nodded her head. The other one cleared a path with her walking stick, swishing it about like a fencer defending low, although it was clear that she could see.

"Yeah, them."

"They're cute. They remind me of Jewish grandmothers. Like my friend in high school, who had the sweetest grandmother who'd make, what are those cakes called? Latkes? Something like that. They were very sweet. I don't know if she ever made them out of honey or molasses because it had a different kind of sweetness that I could never figure out. And then, dentist time and lots of cavities. It was a while before I figured things out, but I wasn't thinking. I ate lots of M&amp;M's too."

Justin followed all that with a half-amused, half-perplexed smile.

"Let's go here," JC said, trotting up to him, then tugging at Justin's upper arm. He led them into a vintage record store, lit with soft yellow lighting with stacks of old vinyl records.

"Hey, maybe I can get some and practice my scratching," Justin said.

"Sure. There are some old jazz records over there with a good swing. Maybe you can teach Chris a few tricks for the next time he pretends to know how to be a DJ." All this said without any sarcasm at all, just utmost sincerity, which made Justin shake his head with a little amazement.

"I don't know how you do that," he said to JC, who was looking over a record by someone called Cesaria Evora.

"What?" JC looked at him quizzically.

"Say things like that without sounding sarcastic."

"I wasn't trying to be," JC said.

"I know." It was as simple as that for JC, and Justin felt a twinge of envy.

"Come on, let's go over there to that booth." JC gave the record over to a bored looking clerk who shuffled off to put JC's choice on the record player.

The record store had what looked like a series of telephone booths placed strategically over the room, all for private enjoyment of music. Very much JC's kind of store, Justin thought.

"How come they just don't let you put the record on yourself?" Justin asked.

"Because not a lot of people today really know how to handle vinyl. It gets damaged really easily if you're careless. Not like CD's. CD's can be a bit clean sometimes, you know. All digitized and all that. Not that I'm saying anything bad about digitalization," with a self-conscious smile at Justin, who smiled in return, "but there's a different appeal to vinyl, you know. Those old scratches at the background, they're pretty cool. Sometimes it sounds like a live audience listening."

They went into the booth and picked up their headphones, and a husky voice sang in what sounded like Spanish.

Justin nudged JC, and mouthed, "What is this?"

JC took off his headphones and reached up to take off Justin's. "She sings in Spanish, I think, but she's African. She's great."

"How can you understand what she's singing then?"

"Just listen, and you'll figure it out."

They both put their headphones back on and listened to the deep, throaty voice of this woman, singing in a language that Justin didn't know.  


_Tem tentacon di maca_

  


_Tem sabor di pecado_

  


_Bos bojos tem_

  


_Docura e mister_

  
He looked at JC, who had arched his head up a bit, his eyes closed in rhapsody, singing along to the music. He was mesmerized by the sight. It came to him in a flash, what the woman was singing about and felt almost ridiculously pleased by the insight.

JC opened his eyes and looked warmly at Justin. "It's all about passion," he mouthed.

Justin put his left hand on JC's waist and clasped JC's hand with his right and started to lead a small dance in the booth, with their foreheads in contact. He closed his eyes and savored the moment.

After a few more moments where he felt the woman's voice singing what sounded like liquid endearments, he felt a trail of kisses on his face. A small peck on the chin, a nibble and a lick on his lips, a brush of lips on the tip of his nose and a soft kiss on his forehead that felt like a welcome and a benediction at the same time.

He opened his eyes to see JC, seemingly lit from within and brimming with contentment.

"I want to kiss you again," JC said guilelessly. He wasn't asking for permission; he was just stating fact. JC leaned in and slowly kissed him, depositing small pecks and licks here and there first, light as flight along the edges of his mouth. When Justin gasped lightly, JC took advantage and swirled into Justin's mouth, his hands grasping the back of Justin's head, pressing it towards his own.

Justin curled his fingers into thick hair and sighed blissfully. He felt JC's mouth curve into a smile.

Clean, transparent glass surrounded them, but that really didn't matter anymore.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics from Sabor de Pecado, written by Manuel de Novas as performed by Cesaria Evora, translated into English by a person I don't know but am very grateful to.
> 
> All lyrics, English and Portuguese (thanks to Maria Galindo for pointing that out), reprinted without permission.


End file.
